


london, 1987

by saltytangerine



Series: she/her [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, F/F, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 11:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21457210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltytangerine/pseuds/saltytangerine
Summary: Siobhán moves from Ireland to London.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: she/her [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546792
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	london, 1987

“Please don’t cause trouble.” She says, tugging at the strands of hair at Siobhán’s temple as she tightens the braid. It is as straight as her own hair and the same shade of golden, but her daughter’s hair does as it wants and she can't begin to estimate the amount of times she has braided it with such care and patience and when she returns from school, it is either loose with two elastics holding barely two pieces of hair together, or completely undone, elastics lost forever.

“I can’t make promises, ma.” Siobhán keeps her eyes on her reflection, adjusting the knot of her tie, loosening it just a fraction so she can breathe. The mirror is old, older than her, maybe older than her ma and they have carried it from house to house, wrapped in newspaper, and along with a painting of the city where she was born, it’s the first thing that decorates their new dwellings. The part of her hair is perfectly straight and her hair lies flat against her head, combed down until they reach a braid at the base of her head–with each tug and the reflexive jerk of her head, she wonders if her ma is intent on ripping her hair out.

“Eleven is too young to be talking back to me, dearest.” Her fingers work quickly, but skillfully and before Siobhán can mutter a reply, both sides are braided, two thin, neat plaits behind her shoulders in the too big blazer bought for £2 in the charity sale. “Get the 32 bus and it’ll drop you right outside the house; I’ll leave the door unlocked, I’m working all day.” She says into the crown of her head, speaking to the reflection of them both. Her hands are reassuring at her upper arms, squeezing tenderly and for a moment, Siobhán feels bolstered, a new wave of confidence taking root in her chest. She wonders if her ma looked like this on her first day of school, pale and with thick rimmed glasses.

“You’ll still walk me to school?” 

“Of course.” 

Siobhán insists on holding her mother’s hand, all the way to the school gates, her small hand tucked in the palm of hers. Her hearing isn’t great, not since a fever when she was four, but she can hear the clicking of her shoes on the pavement and the cars driving too fast along the main road. They walk past the hospital where Sarah has taken a post, a sister’s job on an infectious diseases ward, and Siobhán had asked why she couldn’t just sit in the nurses office after school until it was time for her to finish her shift, to which, Sarah told her about smallpox. She lets go of her hand and as soon as she passes through the gate, she regrets it. She turns back and time slows as a group of older girls walk through the gate too, just off the bus, and she can’t see past them until they are gone, and when they’re gone, so is her mother. 

St Philomena’s is encased by iron railings and while in her first history lesson of term, she wonders if the railings were seized by the war effort and melted down into bullets. As the new kid, she doesn’t say it out loud, but curls her wrists so her hands are hidden in her sleeves. The children are sorted in their seats in alphabetical order in this class and the only space left for her is nestled between a girl shorter than her and a red headed girl with the tightest curls she’s ever seen. One kid out, one kid in, she guesses by the way Miss Daniels keeps calling her Susan. Miss Daniels is kind though and doesn’t make her introduce herself in front of the form in her pelerine socks and too big blazer with pockets deep enough to hide her glasses in. 

No one talks to her, apart from Rosie who has forgotten her biro and Siobhán’s mother had packed a brand new pack inside her bookbag. She opens the pack from the safety of inside her bag, so no one else can see how many she has– terrified of coming home and saying she has no pens left. In third period English, she hears two girls laughing, so she turns her head, a risky move considering she is sat in the front row. The blonde girl has her face in her hands, while the dark haired girl has her head thrown back, gasping at air to stop herself from making much noise, gripping the edge of the table as she's leant back on the rear legs of the chair.

“Miss King, Miss Brown, would you care to share what is so astoundingly hilarious that you feel the need to disrupt the class?” 

“It’s ok, really, you can carry on, we’re alright now.” Caroline lifts her head up from her hands and rubs her cheeks as if to calm herself down. She shoots a quick glance at the girl beside her and nudges her. “_Miss Brown_,” she says in a hushed voice, tugging her friend’s sleeve so she sits back upright, the feet of her chair clattering loudly on the wooden floor as she’s jerked forward, “is ready to hear more about persuasive language too.” 

“What kind of example is that to lead to our new student?” Sister Josephine stands in front of the blackboard, her arms folded across her chest, and Siobhán has not been more intimidated by a woman since her gran scolded her grandpa at Christmas dinner back in 1983.

She sinks further into her blazer, wishing the collar could swallow her. She had gone so far unnoticed, but she hears the drag of a chair across the floor and feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up, the girls hair is dark brown, almost black, braided into one long thick strand, a few pieces loose around her face. She's taller than her, but Siobhán isn't surprised. _Miss Brown_, she remembers, she shouldn't forget.

“I’m sorry.” Says the girl and Siobhán is sure that she must be teasing, but she looks sincere, almost serene now she has stopped laughing. It’s the same reassuring weight on her shoulder that her mother’s grip gives her, and with the promise of lunch only twenty three minutes away, she feels calm. “Welcome to Philomena’s.”


End file.
